Nicely executed soap opera of middle-aged architect Marcello Mastroianni loving the criminally gorgeous seventeen-year-old Nastassja Kinski before ultimately breaking up. Of course, nothing in life is simple. Years ago, Mastroianni had an affair with Kinski's mother and the possibility exists that she is his real daughter. Oh, to hold thee lightly on a gentle knee and print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss! But Incest be damned. Instead, he spends one night making savage love to her before they both realize this May-December business renders it all pointless.
The direction is functional. Alberto Lattuada has one artistic shot of two bright orange rowing shells emerging from under a dull stone bridge and forming striking geometric patterns, but then he goes and ruins it with clichés. Mastroianni is wandering with a camera around one of Florence's tourist spots. The movie camera pans around until it fixes on some feature of the landscape -- some swans, a statue in a ruined state -- then we hear a camera shutter click and the picture freezes. This happens half a dozen repetitive times for reasons known only to the director, or maybe nobody at all. At a horse race, the animals pound along in slow motion. Ho hum. The musical score is mostly electronic, or tinny violins, and is more irritating than constructive.
The best part of the film comes from the two principals. Of Kinski it must be said that her features and figure are almost too flawless. There isn't a single angle that doesn't flatter her and make her look desirable in the most sensual way. The curious thing is that -- well, there is a photo of her in the arms of her compellingly ugly father, Klaus, in which she can't be more than a few years old. She stares at the camera with a dark gaze that's already arresting. Now she's middle aged and STILL looks like the perfectly featured middle-aged woman! Dancing around the flat in the nude, she makes Mastroianni bite her plump rear cheek. Okay. One or two nude scenes resembling soft-core porn. But she is, after all, just a wanton kid at heart. She plays disgusting tricks on Mastroianni and nags him to take her to night clubs when all the poor guy wants to do is sleep.
Mastroianni is fiftyish and his age shows. He's no longer the lost young journalist of "La Dolce Vita" but he's still handsome. I can forgive him his handsomeness because he's so superior at projecting emotions that we ordinary men can identify with -- doubt, pathos, guilt. The merest of Mastroianni's resigned shrugs gets the job done. Cary Grant was handsome too, but he won me over with his ability to show bemusement and mock indignation.
Unfortunately, the film is dubbed, and not well. Mastroianni is given the mellifluous baritone of a radio actor or the guy who does voiceovers in TV commercials. Kinski has the breathless piping voice of an adolescent and it sounds like whoever did her dubbing had a difficult time with it because the effort shows. Better if Kinski had dubbed herself. Hers has a distinctive deep nasal quality that we've all learned to associate with her appearance on screen.
The direction is functional. Alberto Lattuada has one artistic shot of two bright orange rowing shells emerging from under a dull stone bridge and forming striking geometric patterns, but then he goes and ruins it with clichés. Mastroianni is wandering with a camera around one of Florence's tourist spots. The movie camera pans around until it fixes on some feature of the landscape -- some swans, a statue in a ruined state -- then we hear a camera shutter click and the picture freezes. This happens half a dozen repetitive times for reasons known only to the director, or maybe nobody at all. At a horse race, the animals pound along in slow motion. Ho hum. The musical score is mostly electronic, or tinny violins, and is more irritating than constructive.
The best part of the film comes from the two principals. Of Kinski it must be said that her features and figure are almost too flawless. There isn't a single angle that doesn't flatter her and make her look desirable in the most sensual way. The curious thing is that -- well, there is a photo of her in the arms of her compellingly ugly father, Klaus, in which she can't be more than a few years old. She stares at the camera with a dark gaze that's already arresting. Now she's middle aged and STILL looks like the perfectly featured middle-aged woman! Dancing around the flat in the nude, she makes Mastroianni bite her plump rear cheek. Okay. One or two nude scenes resembling soft-core porn. But she is, after all, just a wanton kid at heart. She plays disgusting tricks on Mastroianni and nags him to take her to night clubs when all the poor guy wants to do is sleep.
Mastroianni is fiftyish and his age shows. He's no longer the lost young journalist of "La Dolce Vita" but he's still handsome. I can forgive him his handsomeness because he's so superior at projecting emotions that we ordinary men can identify with -- doubt, pathos, guilt. The merest of Mastroianni's resigned shrugs gets the job done. Cary Grant was handsome too, but he won me over with his ability to show bemusement and mock indignation.
Unfortunately, the film is dubbed, and not well. Mastroianni is given the mellifluous baritone of a radio actor or the guy who does voiceovers in TV commercials. Kinski has the breathless piping voice of an adolescent and it sounds like whoever did her dubbing had a difficult time with it because the effort shows. Better if Kinski had dubbed herself. Hers has a distinctive deep nasal quality that we've all learned to associate with her appearance on screen.
